


A Gryffindor Guardian

by telleroftynesidetales



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24950575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telleroftynesidetales/pseuds/telleroftynesidetales
Summary: Blaise's shady deeds have not gone unnoticed. When confronted with hard evidence that links him to certain persons of interest, he must confront the truth. In doing so, he gains an unlikely ally.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	A Gryffindor Guardian

Whispers of violent deaths and sudden disappearances circulated throughout the Great Hall. Between nibbles of their breakfast, students murmured about the potential whereabouts of Harry Potter. Much of the speculative chatter placed him in hiding with Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, but the vast majority of Ravenclaws theorized that he had been kidnapped by Lord Voldemort’s snatchers. 

Blaise sat alone at the end of the Slytherin table. He ignored each rumor, absentmindedly toying with the juicy sausage link and runny eggs on his plate. The previous night’s events had scarred him both, mentally and physically. Bite marks were imprinted on the crook of his neck and, though slightly concealed by the sleeve of his robe, he wore a black cast on his right wrist. Perhaps the most traumatic of all, however, were the intermittent laughs of Bellatrix Lestrange. He heard her every ten seconds, triggering the same partial flashback. He saw himself shirtless and dehydrated, panting loudly as his tormentor blindfolded him. The vision repeated in slow motion and fully hijacked his mind. 

“It wasn’t my choice to leave you in the basement, nor my mother’s. My father thought differently. He told us it was a private matter.”

Draco Malfoy’s words snapped Blaise out of the trance. He now sat across from him, eating a piece of buttered toast. 

“I didn’t cry, didn’t even beg her,” Blaise mumbled. “She is a horrible woman, an absolute predator. I will never forget what she did to me.”

Cup in hand, Draco swallowed hard. “What happened?”

Blaise’s head lifted and he opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

“You missed Transfiguration this morning. I…just figured you could copy my notes,” said a gentle voice. 

Blaise looked up, the smiling face of Hannah Abbott a beacon of light in what was certainly the darkest of times. Her smoke-gray sweater was buttoned to the very top, only allowing for a partial view of her white shirt and that yellow and black striped tie. 

She held out a green-ribboned scroll and smiled, her teeth devoid of even the slightest plaque residue.

“I, uh, had a long night. I’ll be sure to get this back to you,” he guaranteed, accepting it. 

Her sky-blue eyes twinkled with affinity. “No worries. If you want, we can study together later.”

Hannah began her return to the Hufflepuff table before Blaise could respond. Those long, vanilla blonde pigtails swayed with each step taken until she was seated. Blaise hadn’t seen her wear that hairstyle in years. It was a reminder of happier days at Hogwarts. Entranced, he watched her mix sweeteners into a teacup. An Asian girl next to Hannah noticed Blaise’s lingering stare, and whispered something in her ear. Hannah then giggled and blushed, looking back at him. 

“A bit of friendly advice,” Draco started, his tone low. “Don’t make it obvious you’re close with anyone; you’ll only give my aunt more ammunition.”

“I’ll take that into consideration. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go write a letter.”

Blaise stood and headed toward the Great Hall’s exit. He ignored Pansy Parkinson’s questions about his injury, and snatched his arm away when Gregory Goyle reached for his sleeve. Grunting at the pain brought on by that abrupt motion, he scuttled into an empty hallway and rested against a crumbling stone pillar. A silver tabby cat strolled past him, disappearing behind the aged structure. 

“Just what this school needs,” Blaise gruffed. “More damn cats. I guess Filch’s nosey little furball wasn’t enough.”

“What this school needs, Mr. Zabini, is more students that will attend their courses.” 

Professor McGonagall’s voice was unmistakable. Blaise had received many tongue lashings from her, due to him having high marks, but not encouraging the slackers in his friend group to take their studies just as seriously. 

A set of deep emerald robes sagged on the elderly woman’s frail body, and a black pointy hat covered the countless greys within her bun. She placed her hands on her hips, tapping her left foot in anticipation of an excuse for his absence. 

“I overslept. It won’t happen again,” lied Blaise. 

“Walk with me. Perhaps you need to do an exercise other than stretching the truth,” Professor McGonagall snapped, treading ahead.

Thinking it best not to further anger one of Hogwarts’ most esteemed instructors, Blaise did not protest. He sped-walked beside her, barely avoiding a collision with a Gryffindor boy whose eyes were glued to an autographed copy of Magical Me. Empty classrooms and buffed quidditch trophy encasements were passed by quickly.

They moved without words, the click-clacking of their shoes speaking some nonverbal language. Professor McGonagall’s were fast and forceful, as if saying, “I am no one’s fool, and I will show you why.” Blaise’s were much slower and came with constant looks at the old witch, undoubtedly asking, “How much trouble am I in, ma’am?”

A grand total of seven staircases were scaled. At the top of the final one, only the haunting coos of wind could be heard. Charcoal smells dominated the airspace. Dull, blue-grey luminescence glimmered through the hexagonal windows. Triangular, sanded monoliths and archways stood in abundance. Mini fire fountains were sprinkled about, their wild crimson flames regulating the area’s naturally frigid temperature. 

“You’re not going to tell Headmaster Snape, are you,” Blaise questioned. 

Professor McGonagall did not respond. She slowly paced in front of a wide, vacant column. After passing it three times, two large doors bedecked with intricate, cross-like designs materialized and creaked opened.

“Wow. Is this the Room of Requirement,” asked Blaise, his eyes bulging. “Malfoy’s mentioned it before, but I never saw it for myself.”

Professor McGonagall entered and sat on a red velvet stool. “Yes, this is exactly the place that you’re thinking of. It’s rare for the Hogwarts faculty to make use of the Room of Requirement, but I assume this slither of privacy will make you more comfortable to talk to me.” 

The doors eased shut without so much as a thud. Blaise looked around, noting the barren nothingness. The ceiling and walls were obscured by thick, white haze. The black-bricked floor was encased in ice and dust, yet presented no points of interest. 

“I was expecting everything to be a wee bit more grandiose,” he admitted.

“I suppose Mr. Malfoy neglected to inform you of the Room of Requirement’s nature,” replied Professor McGonagall, folding her wrinkled hands in her lap. “It only appears when one is in dire need of it, and will provide nothing more than what a witch or wizard requires at that precise moment. I needed a space where you’d feel hidden from the watchful eye of Death Eaters.”

“You’re mistaken; I wouldn’t deal with any of them,” Blaise claimed. 

“Then why was it that I saw you, in Knockturn Alley, receiving a package for Amycus Carrow,” interrogated Professor McGonagall. 

A cold bead of sweat rolled down Blaise’s spine. “You were there?”

“Many students have been caught stealing from the shops. I happened to be looking for two students from my house that night, and saw you,” explained Professor McGonagall, nodding. “Answer me this: if you wouldn’t dare fraternize with Death Eaters, why was it that he chose you to receive his package from Borgin and Burkes?”

Blaise lowered his head and fell silent.

“Is there something you wish to tell me,” Professor McGonagall questioned. 

“No need to pretend. I’m sure you already know what I’m mixed up in,” submitted Blaise, staring at the icy sheet beneath his shoes.

“Tell me about that mark you have,” Professor McGonagall said.

“Bellatrix Lestrange gave it to me,” lamented Blaise, tracing the black band tattooed on his ring finger. “She can use it to find out wherever I am.”

Professor McGonagall narrowed her tired, blue eyes. “A locator jinx? Those haven’t been used in absolutely ages, and they only work if the individual afflicted has an attraction to the caster.”

“Can you blame me? She’s beautiful, and belongs to a rich and powerful bloodline,” said Blaise.

“Yes, I can, Mr. Zabini. For heaven’s sake, she is a murderer,” thundered Professor McGonagall. “And what have you got there on your wrist? Show it to me.”

Infuriated, she rose from her seat and peeled back Blaise’s sleeve. The cast, made of charred elf bones and niffler fur, discharged dark purple flashes.

“This is not Madam Pomfrey’s work. She’d never put such a crude, primitive covering on one of our students. Did that vile woman Bellatrix do this to you?”

“I had dinner at Malfoy Manor last night. She put the cast on my wrist after breaking it, and forbade me from getting medical attention from anyone except her.”

Snake-shaped shadows blanketed the ceiling’s haze.

Professor McGonagall pulled out her wand and traced along the edges of the magical sheath. She tapped the corners ever so gently until it shattered into dusky fragments.

“You are to go to the hospital wing immediately. Tell Madam Pomfrey your wrist is in severe pain. Your injury will be healed in no time at all,” she instructed.

“Really, I don’t think you should be getting involved in Slytherin business. It’s far too dangerous,” protested Blaise.

“Slytherin or not,” Professor McGonagall began. “You are a student at Hogwarts, first and foremost. I shall not sit idly by and watch you be abused. In Godric Gryffindor’s name, I am sworn to protect every student, not simply those belonging to my house!”

“What if…”

“Do not argue with me. Move along, or I will give you a month’s worth of detention.”

Shoulders slumping, Blaise caressed his bruised wrist and turned to leave. He moved at a snail’s pace, fearful of what evil Bellatrix would perpetrate upon learning of his defiance. As the doors smoked and rumbled to signal their unlocking, Professor McGonagall called to him.

“Oh, and Mr. Zabini, I also thought you should know: someone’s wealth should not dictate your interest in them. There are plenty of upstanding, beautiful young women here at Hogwarts in your own age bracket. I’m sure Ms. Abbott would make a fine partner.”

Blaise smiled and exited the Room of Requirement. Unbeknownst to him, an invisible spy lurked under an archway.


End file.
